


The Devil and the Darkness

by CornishGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crowley's Not Your Friend, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hand of God, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, Past Torture, Repressed Memories, Torture, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishGirl/pseuds/CornishGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters, and Crowley, face enemies on two fronts: Amara, oddly linked to Dean; and Lucifer, wearing Castiel's human meatsuit as he rules in Hell. With the world and hell at stake, they unite. But Crowley's plan depends on Dean; and Sam knows Dean's weakness is Amara. What will be—and who will pay—the ultimate cost?   As Sam stands watch over Crowley's body and the King of Hell hitches a ride in Dean's head, what begins as a mission to destroy the Darkness and return Lucifer to the Cage becomes a harrowing journey for Dean.</p><p>(Multi-chapter WIP, but WILL be completed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I began this story early in S11 relying on show canon at the time, but once "Hell's Angel" (Ep 18) aired, my plans for this story diverged a great deal from the balance of the season. Therefore this story is my own take on might have happened, with an ending planned well prior to the S11 finale. Some portions and references refer to or parallel what we saw on the show, while other elements are entirely of my own devising.
> 
> When show canon diverged so far from my own plans, I decided to put this story on hiatus. Enough time has passed since I viewed the finale that I feel confident about returning to the story. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated! I can't tell you how much encouragement fic writers gain from reviews.

No longer did he sleep with the Bowie beneath his pillow—that is, so long as he was in the bunker. On the road, oh yes; that would never change. And certainly he had weapons at the ready even in his spartan bedroom: a panoply of guns, even a crossbow, mounted upon the wall, but the Bowie? No. Set aside, with relief. He slept now with his head atop a pillow, a pillow atop a memory foam mattress, and no blade between the two.

Though his hand often _did_ creep of its own to rest there, sandwiched between cotton, as if all those decades of habit prevented him from sleeping soundly if he didn't at the very least _assume the position._

So when, as he lay belly-down with his face mashed into the pillow, the cell's ringtone woke him from a very sound sleep—that, too, a prodigious luxury found only within the walls of the bunker, all spell- and sigil-warded—he naturally flexed his fingers and closed his hand even though only tangentially awake, anticipating, desiring the sensation of smooth, satiny horn handle, only to discover his palm was empty, that the knife wasn't there beneath his pillow, beneath his head; and upon _that_ realization came the wonder of recollection that _it wasn't necessary_. Not here.

Nor, _here_ , did he launch instantly from sleep into complete physical preparedness for immediate action, into the thrumming alertness of adrenaline shooting through his system, sharpening all his senses. It wasn't _fight or flight_ , with him. It was _fight_. Always.

Or had been, until two Winchester brothers finally came home to a place built for them and their kind, where rest for the _un_ wicked was offered in abundance.

Here, he rested.

And so, weaponless but relaxed, if somewhat disgruntled by the disruption, he allowed himself a slow, _normal_ awakening instead of one powered by the awareness of threat, a promise of danger. He rolled over onto his back, reached out flailing arm and fumbling fingers to clumsily snag the phone, to bring it close to one barely-cracked eye.

First, the time: **_3:00 A.M._**

Who the hell was calling him at three in the morning?

Then, the ID: **_666._**

It literally _was_ hell.

He shot bolt upright in bed, all reflex, all fight, automatically grabbing for the knife that was not beneath his pillow even as he thumbed the connection open, pressed the phone against his ear; as he cursed himself for being naked of blade.

"Squirrel," chirped the voice, an accented admixture of smoke, and whiskey, and sulfur. "Four rings? Really? There was a day when Dean Winchester would have had the phone to his ear—and a knife in his hand?—before the first ring ended. Lost a step, have we? Or two?" The deliberate triple-click of a chastising tongue came clearly through the phone. "I suppose age does catch up even to Winchesters. Well—when they're not demons, that is."

Dean snapped on the bedside light with excess aggression, squinted against it as he fell back to one bent elbow. "Dammit, Crowley—"

"Oh, unbunch those knickers, Squirrel . . . or are you sleeping pantsless again, as you did in the bars on our little roadtrip?— _uh_ -uh, no, don't disconnect, Dean; I can hear your intention clearly. I really have called for a reason, not just to chat about old times, and I promise you it's worth your while. That is, if you want to save the world. Which I assume you do. Because you _always_ do. You really should print up business cards one of these days: _The Winchester Brothers, Willing To Die Six Days a Week and Twice on Sundays, Since . . . "_ And a deliberate pause, as he affected thoughtfulness.

Dean ground his teeth. He wanted badly to disconnect, but Crowley was correct: he always called for a reason, and too often that reason truly was significant on a global scale. So he kept his mouth shut and glared fiercely into a shadowed sanctuary he'd treasured, that now was violated.

"What service start-date would be most appropriate, Dean?" the King of Hell continued. "When Azazel showed up in Little Sammy's nursery? When Jessica burned on the ceiling? When your father made his deal to keep you alive? Or when you followed in Daddy's footsteps and made a crossroads deal to save your little brother? My word, but what you boys have been through! Well, here's another opportunity to add to the legend. A chance to put on your big boy pants _once again_ and save humanity. Go roust Moose out of his bed and meet me to discuss it."

Dean scrubbed a stiff-fingered hand through his hair, wished he could banish the entire conversation from his brain. "Meet you _where?_ "

Crowley's laugh was brief and breathy, merely a faint gust of amusement. "Well, I could come to you there, in your very bedroom, because I've _been_ there, haven't I? But to show my good faith, I'll place myself utterly at your disposal in that horrendously inhospitable room in which I've guested before. The one with the iron devil's trap embedded in the floor. And no, I need no invitation; I know the way."

"You can't—" But Dean broke it off, because even as he spoke the thought occurred that Crowley _had_ been in the dungeon, and he _had_ been in Dean's bedroom, and he was far more than merely a garden-variety demon. And if he could somehow just waltz in past the wards, the ramifications were serious.

Not here. Not _here_ , where there was safety; to where Dean had trusted his life, and Sam's, for the first time since Bobby's place burned.

"Indeed," Crowley agreed, as if following Dean's train of thought. "Actually, I _am_ already here. When Sam summoned me to resurrect you after your heroic but foolhardy dance with Metatron—and being a little distracted at the time; the grieving, you know—he left the doorway open. You should have words with the boy, remind him to lock the barn door _before_ the big bad comes back. Now. Shoo. Go wake him, meet me for a cuppa. You want Amara, don't you?"

Dean squeezed his eyes closed so hard they ached. Frustration and anger, always so near the surface when the King of Hell was involved—and, to be painfully honest, a trace of guilt—deepened the sleep-roughened harshness of his tone. "Crowley, so help me—"

The demon broke in. "' _So help me, God_?' Is that what you were going to say? That is amusing, Dean. And deliciously apropos. You see, I've found another one."

"Another one what?"

"Hand."

Dean's brows shot up. " _Of God_?"

Crowley's tone was dry. "And if we keep going on this way, we may just discover the Christian God is a little more like India's Kali, with her multiple appendages. Meanwhile, as one of your more colorful American sayings has it: you're 'burning daylight.' Grab Moose, Dean, there's a good boy, and let's go save your heaven _and_ my hell."

Dean dropped the cell, threw himself out of bed, grabbed a weapon, ran down the hall barely-clad, and barefoot.

Memory conjured it, unbidden, unwanted; and the body, too, remembered, which in turn kindled the heat, the lick of shame: _a demon in the bunker._

And not one named Crowley.

But _this_ time, as he shouted his brother's name, he bore in his hand an angel blade instead of a hammer.

* * *

_**~ tbc ~** _

 


	2. Chapter 2

 God, but he loved her. Every inch of her; every thought, every gust of laughter, every sly cut of blue eyes and long wiry blond curl; every burned meal, forgotten intent; every shudder and shiver of bliss, of _release_ and _relief_ and flesh damp and sticky from head to toe with the slow, sweet tumble into afterglow.

Jessica Moore was everything he'd ever dreamed of—no; more, _more_ than he'd ever dreamed of, because he'd been nothing, and no one, other than something bred, and _fed_ , and shaped, and aimed, to be used for another agenda—and part of him was utterly bewildered that she'd given him so much as the time of day, while another part was thrilled, and a third part was proud, and the fourth and last part of him wanted to shout to a father—and, to a lesser extent, to a brother: _See? See what I can do? See what life can be? See how everything can be normal and safe and apple pie? See how I can count for something more than as a weapon, than a human computer, than the means to an end?_

But even that was perverted, those memories, those wishes, destroyed. He could tell off names verging on a dozen, counting them on his fingers, all those entities engaged in disassembling the things he'd valued. Even among them those whom he knew at school, where all was inviolable, because nothing other than class, and grades, and a woman mattered _. Nothing else did._

Except it did matter, all of it, after all. Because there was Brady, taken over Thanksgiving break; and then Meg, and Azazel . . . and eventually Ruby, who had, in the end, perverted his memories of Jessica, because he was an older and more experienced man by then, and his needs were different. Sharper. Harder. Demanding. But _guided_ , yet again, by others. Upon them balanced life, and death, and the damn _apocalypse_.

And finally there was Crowley.

But mostly: Lucifer.

Born to be _Lucifer's_ vessel.

Even Dad— **DAD** —had said: _If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him._

Nothing was said to Sam. No hint that maybe, possibly, potentially, Sam was destined not only for hell, but to _lead_ hell.

No. It was said to Dean. To the brother, brought—no, **_bought_** —out of death into life by a deal with a demon, who'd been tasked with safeguarding his baby brother from the time he was _four._

_Save your brother, against all threats. Always. No matter what. Lay down your life for him._

_But if he falters, if he fails, if he is_ **lost** _: kill him._

Who did that?

John Winchester.

And every other father, mother, brother, sister . . . they did no such thing. Said no such thing. Never expected the eldest to end the youngest.

Hell, even the _archangels_ couldn't agree among themselves about who was loyal, who was not; who might need to be killed just in case; who needed to be killed immediately.

_Abomination_ , Cas had called him.

Suckled on demon blood, that night in the nursery. Mother's milk forgotten in those seconds, lost forever in the flames upon the ceiling. And all those years without, all those years of being wholly human in all ways, in all appetites—until he wasn't. Until he realized milk was lesser then blood.

Azazel had asked: _"How certain are you that what you brought back is one-hundred percent pure Sam?"_

And Dean had shot the bastard.

To this day, Sam didn't know if Dean had shot the yellow-eyed son of a bitch because he was pissed, or because he was afraid.

Then the dreams were shattered, and the world crashed upon him with a pounding on his door, and shouting; and in that instant, with the soundest of sleeps destroyed, as he shifted from dreams, and visions, and memories, he recalled all over again that Jess was _dead—_

_Young Sam in his head cried: Oh God, oh God, she's **dead** —even as he recalled he was no longer that boy—_

—and recalled, too, that Lucifer, who had used his memory of her to gain access to the vessel he wanted so badly, was free of the cage; that the voice on the other side of his door belonged to his brother.

Sam realized he was in the here, and the now, not the _then_ —not when Jess was a constant memory, constant regret and guilt; and while none was ever lost—he recalled too much, _too much_ —time had faded the vivid _pain_ of the colors to something less than blinding.

"Samm _yy_!" his brother shouted, with a bang of fist upon wood. "Crowley's in the dungeon!"

Even as Sam levitated out from under the covers into the dim illumination of his nightlight, knowing apprehension and shock, he felt the interior click into place of relief, the certainty of safety, that all would be well.

It had never failed him, that relief, that certainty. That trust in his brother.

Not even when Dean, so far gone, so consumed by—so lost _in_ —the Mark of Cain, had wielded Death's scythe.

_If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him._

Dean never had.

Dean never would.

Sam reached the door and yanked it open. Hallway light spilled into his room.

"Let's go." Dean was grim and taut and _honed_.

Sam snatched up the Kurdish knife with its Arabic etchings. "He can't be, Dean—"

Dean shouldered back from the doorway to allow Sam egress. "He says he _is_."

Sam exited, shook his head, paused briefly upon the threshold. "Crowley says a lot of things. Remember? He's a demon. Demons lie."

Dean's face was tense. "Yeah? He also says you forgot to close the door after you summoned him. You know, when you were going to pitch him a deal to resurrect me."

Sam froze, staring at his brother. He thought back, cast himself back, recalling the shock of Dean's death; of laying his brother's body upon the bed; of the whiskey he'd downed, the vow he'd made in the dungeon—and how Crowley hadn't come.

Hadn't come to _him_. Because he'd gone to Dean.

To the newborn demon.

Sam was running now, leading through the hallway too narrow for Winchester males to run abreast.

Because he really, really _, really_ didn't want to believe that Crowley could simply _appear_ in the bunker.

Because if so, if Crowley could, it really was Sam's fault.

He had no memory of closing a door.

Only of opening it.

* * *

_**~ tbc ~** _

 


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley's meatsuit had always struck Dean as pretty damn boring, when it came down to it. Of average height (unlike Winchesters), slightly pudgy (also unlike Winchesters; and probably because the most exercise he ever got was snapping his fingers), and of rather unprepossessing looks and hair ( _certainly_ unlike Winchesters). He could be sly, droll, dry, ironic, even provide comic relief—and yet there was always, _always_ a sense of _waiting_ about the man, an impression of power, of a subtle but unearthly charisma. Crowley was a wise old cat at a mouse hole, possessed of a sense of humor but also a terrible patience.

Lilith wore children. She'd specialized in it. Creepy, no question. But her goal was obvious, her agenda writ large.

Crowley wielded wit as his weapon to lead others astray. To misdirect, to be discounted as a threat, and to pounce upon the opening, upon the action, verbal or physical, that allowed him a way in.

Crowley nudged open doors, and exploited the resulting cracks. He did not lift a booted foot and smash them open, the way Winchesters did.

And that was why, Dean knew, the King of Hell was far more dangerous than looks might suggest.

Now he waited, as promised, within the dungeon; within the devil's trap embedded in the floor. He had dragged the chair away from the desk, positioned it precisely within the center of the ornate assemblage of iron, and sat upon it with legs casually crossed, one hand resting lightly atop the other, with that glint in his eye and that faint smile upon his mouth.

"Hallo, boys." One eyebrow lifted. "Don't dress up on my account. Is it Casual Friday?"

And Dean recalled that he himself was clad in boxers and nothing else, while his brother wore a wrinkled tee and track pants.

Neither of them ever wore pajamas. Ever. Nor had, even as kids, because John Winchester explained that if they needed to move quickly, no matter the reason; to throw meager belongings into the car to escape an angry landlord, or to track down a monster two states over, it was best to be wearing something other than footie pajamas, because they were hell to run in.

Dean supposed a grown man might be eyed askance if he raced off into the night wearing nothing but boxers, but he was in the _bunker_ , dammit, a place warded out the wazoo.

That Crowley could enter. That Crowley _had_. All on his own.

Sam, halting next to his brother just inside the dungeon, dropped the F-bomb again.

"What, Moose?" Crowley asked, brows lifted high. "It's only your friendly neighborhood demon, after all. Not like an enemy, am I? Because if I were, and if I were here to do you harm, I'd have done it _before_ assuming the position, don't you think?"

"What the hell do you want?" Dean demanded, supremely irritated as adrenaline bled away.

"In a nutshell, _that_ ," Crowley answered. "Lucifer has my playground, and _I bloody well want it back_."

"Why should _we_ care whether you have hell, or not?" Sam asked. "It's not like you exactly perform good works from there, is it?"

Crowley smiled. "But wouldn't you prefer me there, rather than here? I mean, you're incapable of killing me—though you did give it a valiant try, Moose; I'll give you that—and for the most part I don't come 'round much, don't hang about drinking your beer and sneaking fast food left-overs from your fridge, do I? No. I show up now and again when you need something . . . " And the humor left his tone. " . . . like a brother brought back from the dead. " He raised a silencing finger before either spoke. "But no. This little proposal will benefit all of us. Hell regained, for me. For you?—Amara, destroyed. And the world saved, yet again, from a threat of truly, _literally_ , Biblical proportions."

"No," Sam said. "There's more to it than that. You're dangling Amara as bait. There's _more_ , Crowley. There's always more with you."

"Of course there is," Crowley agreed. "We should play chess sometime, Moose. It's a little above your brother's paygrade, but we could make a game of it, you and I."

He meant it to sting, Dean knew. It didn't. His game never had been chess. It was balls-to-walls pool, with the crack of an opening break that exploded the rack and dropped all of his stripes, or all of his solids, into the pockets.

"Spill," Dean said, and it wasn't an invitation. "You mentioned a Hand of God."

"A second one?" Sam blurted.

"Third," Crowley corrected. "There was a small matter of the Rod of Aaron, but I'm afraid it's now out of service. A one-off, as it were. But now that I'm familiar with the concept, I know where another is. And it will serve all of us to gather it up and clutch it to our delicate beating breasts, because it will take out Amara, as we know—and also Lucifer. Thus your world is saved, for the umpteenth time, and I get my kingdom back."

"No," Sam said.

Dean asked, "How?"

Sam stared at him incredulously. "You're asking him _'how?'_ After what he did to you? He got you into the whole fix with the Mark of Cain! Don't ask him _'how,'_ tell him to go straight to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200!"

And in Dean's head, upon hearing those words, came a memory. A meatsuit chained to upright iron, imprisoned within a devil's trap promised to be unbreakable, sworn to it by an angel.

_"_ _But Daddy's little girl, he broke. He broke in_ _**thirty** _ _. Oh, just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?"_

Crowley's eyes were upon him. He couldn't know. No one was privy to that conversation with Alastair but the two in the room, and one of them was dead. Oh, Dean had told Sam what he'd done in hell, how he'd cut and sliced and carved; but had never, not once, _to anyone_ , repeated what Alastair told him from within that devil's trap.

It was one thing to admit he'd broken, that he'd climbed off the rack to do what Alastair wanted; but entirely another to bring his father into the conversation. Not before his brother. Cas—yes. He'd let Cas in, a little, in that hospital room, because Cas knew what it was to serve a father whose example, whose _expectations_ , could never be met.

But not to Sam. Not about Dad.

Sam didn't _know_. Neither did Crowley.

But Crowley knew he'd nudged open the door. And now he waited beside the mouse hole.

* * *

Sam understood his brother better than anyone else in the world. Better than himself. And he knew that expression. Hell, it was more than _expression_ ; with Dean it was a whole-body experience. He was alight with it. And Sam had always been a moth drawn to the flame.

No wonder Cas and the others had laid siege to his brother. No wonder God had found him a true and perfect weapon. Because he was.

But Sam was damn tired of losing his brother to causes. To _himself_.

"No, Dean." It was hard and cold and absolute. "No."

Dean flicked him a glance. "I asked a simple question, Sammy. Nothing more than that. You oughta be proud of me. Didn't shoot first, didn't kick in the door while you're fiddling with the picks . . . " He shrugged; and even in that lived power, and an unconscious grace. "Just a question."

"Well, color me thrilled all to hell," Sam shot back. "No. _No_."

Crowley's tone was amused. "It always such fun watching the children play."

Sam spun away from his brother and pointed at Crowley. But it wasn't a finger he used. It was a shining blade. " _You shut up_! Close that mouth of yours, or I'll cut a new one below the one you have."

Crowley's brows lifted. "That's not your style, Moose. That kind of action was your brother's specialty, when he dwelt among us." He smiled. "I was there, remember? They told stories of him. Made all the gossip rags. Hell's social media. What poor soul is Dean Winchester shredding today?"

Sam expected his brother to wince, to see a flicker in the eyes, an acknowledgment of the hit. But Dean didn't even look at Crowley. He stared at his brother, waiting him out.

"You don't even know what he's talking about!" Sam cried. "You don't know what it might mean. God, Dean, I get the hero complex, I get the willingness to sacrifice for the greater good, I _get_ that Dad needed you this way, but it's got to stop. You've got to stand the hell down. The last time you listened to this man, you _ended up a demon!"_

"It's a simple matter, really," Crowley drawled. "You need to fetch this Hand of God. You've done it once already, haven't you, Dean?—and this wouldn't involve any kind of time travel."

"Then we're both going," Sam snapped; and inwardly grimaced that he'd just agreed to do what he'd counseled against. "I'm not staying behind this time. We're in this together, or we're not in this at all."

"You can't go, Moose," Crowley said, with a trace of faux regret in his voice. "That is to say, you _could_ , but it might end badly for you. And that would make your brother very, very sad, and I really don't think you want a sad Dean Winchester looking for a way to commit suicide-by-monster. Because I've sorted it out even if you two children haven't: You've a pathological, dysfunctional, dreadful trainwreck of a competition going on."

It came out of their mouths at the same time, upon the same breath, in identical tones of baffled disbelief. _"What?"_

Crowley smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his slacks. "Now, in most families, you settle it in games, in sports, in arguments over the dinner table that may end up in a wrestling match in the front yard, but you Winchesters . . . oh, no. Nothing so basic. Sam leaps into the pit. Dean surrenders humanity. Which one of you can die bloodier than the other? Dead is dead, after all. Does it matter? Is it _winning_ to die?" The eyes, just for a moment, showed red at the back of them; a brief, passing glint like a dog at night in the light. "So tell me: What's so problematical about taking a short, uneventful journey to collect a weapon that will—and I repeat; I'll make it a mantra— _save the bloody world?"_

"I'll go," Dean said, as he always did.

Sam thrust out a hand, as if his brother were a child about to cross a busy street. "Wait. _Wait_. Crowley—what do you mean, I can't go?"

Crowley said, "Lucifer. If he finds you, he'll jump your bones; and then where will you be? You were his vessel briefly; said yes, and everything. Didn't work out so well for either of you."

"He needs my consent," Sam said. "Remember? This time I said no. You were there; you saw it."

"But you'll give your consent if it's a trade-off for your brother's life." Crowley's mouth twitched. "Don't you remember, Sam? With Lucifer wearing your meatsuit at Stull Cemetery, you very nearly beat your brother to death. _Castiel_ once nearly beat your brother to death. Do you really want to see what's left of Dean after Lucifer, wearing Castiel, uses him to leverage you? Oh, you'll say 'yes.' And you'll break sooner than thirty years."

Now, Dean winced. It was faint, but Sam felt it.

Sam stared at Crowley, narrowing his eyes. "What does Lucifer have to do with this? Why are you bringing him up?"

"The Hand of God," Crowley said, "is in a lockup. Mine. In hell. Where the second one was. I just didn't put two and two together until recently. Naturally I thought of Dean first, because he's always so willing to undertake the impossible regardless of risk. Besides, he was just there. Fetched something else for me. This'll be a milk-run. "

Dean's tone was odd. "Hell is a milk-run?"

And Sam looked at him, because he heard something he didn't like. Something he didn't recognize. Something—hidden. Shielded behind a blast-wall, as only Dean could build.

"If Moose stays here, and I go with you, yes. A milk-run."

"Then why don't _you_ just go?" Sam demanded. "Can't the King of Hell enter his own kingdom?"

"That's the problem," Crowley replied. "It's not mine, just now, and since my escape I suspect Lucifer has set a number of very nasty traps, should I attempt to return. Well, in a form he knows. So, it will be Dean Winchester to the rescue. Again."

Dean waved the angel blade. "And _I_ was just there. You think there won't be traps set for me?"

"Trojan horse," Crowley said. "Or maybe a Romulan cloaking device would be more apt. Or . . ." He waved a dismissive hand. "Enough with the metaphors. You won't be _you_ , Dean. Not precisely. You'll be—well, let's just say you'll be us."

_"'_ _Us?'"_

Crowley smiled. "I'll guide you down. I'll _ride_ you down." And as they stared at him, struck into wide-eyed, appalled silence, he added, "I'll be, as you once put it so eloquently, the _'junk in your trunk.'"_

* * *

**_~ tbc ~_ **

 


	4. Chapter 4

Since Dean was wearing nothing other than boxers, Sam couldn't very well grab him up by tee and flannel shirt—or tee, flannel shirt, and jacket—and drag his brother into the corridor.

Or even, for that matter, clutch at his clothes in bunched up fists and hurl him against a wall right here in the bunker, in the dungeon, in front of Crowley, much as he wanted to.

Before Crowley, who'd said in that supercilious way: _"It's always such fun watching the children play."_

So Sam clamped one big, broad, long-fingered hand around the hard biceps of Dean's left arm, and—because Sam understood the art of leverage when it applied to his brother—hitched him around and off-balance _before_ Dean could settle his center of gravity into something approaching a boat anchor. Because he could do that. Dean was shorter by three inches, but he was every bit as broad and actually heavier through the shoulders, and his quick-twitch muscles fired far faster than Sam's, who had always felt that with his wing-span and leg length it took the nerve impulses from his brain longer to engage his limbs. Which was why Dean could give up those inches as well as thirty pounds and still win. Sam knew this from long, hard, often painful personal experience.

Boat anchor. Yeah.

Sam clutched at the anchor chain— _arm_ —and swung the entire apparatus. Just enough that it gave, wobbled, fought for balance, and then he shoved as hard as he could to aim that damn anchor through the dungeon door and over the side of the boat into the hallway.

"— _dammit_ , Sam—"

Sam yanked closed the door marked 7B and spun to face his brother, to block him with his body. "We are not doing this!"

Dean paused on an immediate come-back, assessed his brother. " _You_ aren't doing anything," he replied, in the smug, amused way he did when he knew he'd won. Or would win.

Because if he'd lost, Dean would be pissed. A not-pissed Dean, who'd been physically, forcefully, angrily shoved by his _baby_ brother out of a room and through a door in front of the King of Hell, would not sound so, so . . . sanguine.

"We— _you_ —are not doing this. You're just not." Sam poked a finger into Dean's shoulder at collar bone-level, into the meat just above the tattoo, ignored the twitch in his brother's jaw. "Hear me?"

"I _did_ just go down there," Dean reminded him, still sounding mild, and smug, and older to younger. "You know, to hell."

"Yeah, and you didn't wait for me!" Sam yelled, who in that moment felt all of the years between them and didn't care. Or maybe he cared _more_.

"No, _you_ didn't wait for _me!_ " Smugness, amusement, and mildness evaporated. Dean, who was now doing his boat anchor impression with legs slightly spread, shoulders loose and poised, yelled back. "Jesus, Sam—maybe we are in some kind of asshole, testosterone-powered, screwed-to-hell competition. You go to hell, to the damn cage, _without me_ , and meet with Lucifer. Hell, you do _more_ than meet with the guy! You end up in the cage _with_ him! And me? There I go rescuing you again—"

Sam couldn't help but throw it in his face, now that they were down to it, because he fought dirty when he was angry. Always had. "He nearly choked you out, Dean. That's hardly a rescue."

In front of Dad, Dean never got furious, never did much more than throw an arm, a shoulder between them. But once wound up with Sam, with Dad out of the picture, he didn't slow down. Didn't much listen. Single-minded, yeah. Inexorable as an avalanche, once up to speed. "—and now here we are with the former King of Hell sitting in our very own devil's trap, and he says he knows a way to destroy Lucifer and the Darkness. Hello? Isn't that what we do? Isn't that the _bumper sticker?"_

Sam spread both arms out to his sides, and in one hand he still clutched Ruby's knife. "He wants to hitch a ride, Dean! Get up in your head! _Crowley!_ "

The angel blade glinted in Dean's grasp. "Yeah? So? He did it with you, you moron! He's the one who clued you in to Gadreel camped out in your skull—"

Anger, coupled with resentment, kindled. "—and why was that, Dean? Tell me again why Gadreel was there. I didn't invite him in!"

"You consented—"

"I was _tricked_! You said it yourself. You tricked me. Well, this time it's Crowley tricking you. Jesus, Dean, are you totally nuts? Do you have selective memory? Because I remember what the Mark did to you, and how it made you into a demon, and how you chose the King of Hell over me!" Sam gulped painfully, felt the sting in his eyes. "I remember every word of it. What you said. I know it wasn't _you_ , but those kind of words you just don't forget. _Crowley_ did that. He set you up. And he's doing it again."

"Pot, kettle," his brother said sharply, with the kind of icy hostility that set the hair rising on the back of Sam's neck. Dean flared hot, but a sustained burn was cold.

"Dean, you can't do this! " He caught his breath again, choked back the sob. "I spent time with Lucifer. A lot of time. My body was back topside, but _I_ wasn't, and I remember every second, every hour—"

"So do I!" Dean roared. "I wish I couldn't remember a damn thing, _but I do_!" In the bunker's dim lighting, his eloquent eyes were occluded behind the sheen of moisture. "At least when I was a demon, I had an excuse. You know? But then— _then?_ I crawled off that rack and became a monster, and it was all me. I traded those four decades for your life, Sam, and I'd do it again. In a heartbeat. Wouldn't think twice about it. The least I can do now is to trade a few _hours_ to save the world."

Sam shook his head vehemently; he couldn't give up, couldn't give in. Too much depended on it. "We don't know that Crowley's right—or that he's telling the truth. Or that he isn't setting us up for something else. He plays the long con."

"Grandmother, eggs," Dean bit out. "Can't you trust me to know what I'm doing? Can't you put some faith in me?"

"No!" Sam shouted, and without thinking slammed a stiffened palm against his brother's chest, shoved him backward. Moved the anchor again, because he had to. "I _saw_ you, Dean. What you were. I saw those black eyes. And it made me remember something you said to _me_ all those years ago: _'If I didn't know you, I would hunt you.'_ Dammit, Dean—I don't want to lose you again. I don't want you to do something stupid like taking on the Mark of Cain as a means to an end. I don't want to hunt you. But if you go darkside again, I _will_ hunt you. _Because that's what Dad taught us_." Sam's mouth jerked. 'If you can't save him, you'll have to kill him.' Two-way street, Dean. God dammit, you stubborn asshole, it's a two-way street!"

His brother's eyes were so wide, and so black, with the pupils blown in fury, that Sam saw an echo of the demon in them. "Well, then," Dean said, "I guess we know where we stand."

"Dean, wait—" Sam reached out.

His hand was struck down. "Don't you touch me."

" _Dean_ —"

"Can't you understand?" His brother's voice rose out of its rumble; and in his tone was pain, and guilt, and despair. "It's bigger than you and me. You told me, in that hospital, that we have to remember what we were, that we can't keep making it about _us_. This isn't, Sam. This is about Lucifer, who is so frightened of the Darkness he's willing to do anything to stop it. _Lucifer_ , Sam! The angels, the demons—hell, even the _monsters_ are afraid. It's not Crowley. It's not Crowley at all. It's everything, Sammy. And we have to do something about it. This is _our_ screw-up, from the time I took on the Mark and you got it off me. We have to clean it up. Whatever it takes."

Until that instant, Sam hadn't truly comprehended. Probably when Dean had come clean with him, had placed the burden of destroying Amara on his younger brother's shoulders because he knew he lacked the answer, the ability—and just what did that knowledge, that admission, do to his control freak of a brother?—Sam should have seen it, but he didn't.

Dean was afraid.

Dean was _desperate_.

He'd jump-started the apocalypse. How does a man live with that?

He stops the sequel.

They'd both, in their own ways, loosed the Darkness. But Sam saw it as a by-product, while Dean took it on as guilt.

"You are not," Sam said, as his voice broke, "responsible for everything."

Dean's eyes were dark, but no demon lived in them. Only the human. "I'm responsible for _this."_

This time when Sam reached out, when he briefly pressed the heel of his hand against the sweep of his brother's collar bone, just for a moment, and as his fingers curved over his shoulder, Dean did not knock it away. It wasn't intimacy. It was contact, and _contract_ , and the unspoken bond of men in a foxhole. "I can't," Sam said. "I can't lose you again. I've been alone. I thought I could make it work. But I can't . . . and I don't want to be there again."

* * *

_**~ tbc ~** _


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm not that kid anymore," Sam declared, as if there had been another conversation between the last thing he'd said—

_'_ _I've been alone. I thought I could make it work. But I can't . . . and I don't want to be there again.'_

—and this thing. This emergence of an adult. That Dean had witnessed, but not entirely _embraced_. Because he'd always been the _big_ brother. The eldest. Who knew more simply because he _was_ eldest, and that never ended.

Until it did.

Sam looked at him, and waited. Dean, who had been the recipient of many a puppy-dog gaze, realized Sam wasn't _working_ it, wasn't trying to manipulate. Sure, Sammy-the-kid had learned how to do it, when he wasn't tussling with Dad; and there were times he wanted/needed his big brother to do things for Sam-specific reasons (which Dean almost always ended up doing, sometimes to his great regret); and Sam the adult, Sam the hunter, had learned how to bend upon vulnerable victims the force of his empathy—succeeding because he _was_ an empathetic, emo bitch—but this time, at this moment, in this place, after everything they'd been through in the eleven years since Dean had hauled his brother's lame ass out of the flames at Stanford, Sam meant exactly what he said. And the eyes, not the ayes, had it.

Just as they had in that bar, when Dean, all demon, had stared him down over a bottle of tequila, daring him to try to put sigil-etched cuffs upon flesh that was no longer human.

He wanted to forget what he'd said then. He could not. _'—what is this, a Lifetime movie? Huh? With your puppy-dog eyes?'_

Sam, not privy to the replay in Dean's head, continued unabated, "And I'm not going to let my big brother talk me out of what my gut is telling me."

Any more than Sam had, one-armed and much too thin, flinched away from the demon's threat. ' _And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy . . . well, that ain't gonna be mercy, either.'_

Dean had come back changed, from those months. So had his brother.

"I know," Dean said. "I do know that, Sammy. But it's time I pulled on my big boy pants and finished this." And inwardly he winced; because that was the imagery Crowley had used. "Look, we don't have all the intel yet. I'm gonna do this, because I have to. I think it's the only way. But yeah, let's go back and talk to Crowley, suss out some more info."

Sam's eyes widened into rounded disbelief. "Like, he'll actually _give_ us some? Tell us the truth? Are you totally, utterly, _batshit crazy_?"

At some point, his baby brother had grown a pair. Dean couldn't figure out whether to be pissed, or proud. "I kinda know the guy, Sam."

"He's a demon, not a guy."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"You don't _know_ him, Dean."

And he said, not hiding the rawness of shame, "I ran with him for weeks, Sam. I howled at the moon right alongside him. Trust him?—hell, no. _Know_ him? Better than I'd like. Better than anyone should." He dropped his gaze, unable to look longer into his brother's eyes. Saw his own hand gripping the angel blade, as it glinted in hallway lighting.

Yeah. He could end it. So could Sam. For all Crowley said they couldn't kill him, he was wrong. All Dean had to do was march into the dungeon, cross the iron circle, and plunge a blade fashioned of heaven into the demon's heart. Sam could do the same, with the blade Ruby had lifted from Alastair.

Sword of heaven; knife of hell.

Lucifer's vessel; Michael's.

It had all gone wrong for the archangels in Kansas, in Lawrence, where two boys had been born to John and Mary Winchester. Stull. The final showdown. The End of Days. Michael, who had once thrown down Lucifer into the fiery furnace, expected to do so again. But Dean had not after all consented, and he'd _settled_ , had Michael, for a lesser vessel, because he had no other choice. Lucifer believed he'd gotten a leg up because _his_ vessel was true.

But Sam was Sam, and he'd won. He'd won the long con.

Dean's turn. No matter what Crowley threw at him, Dean would win. Because if he was strong enough to house one of the firstborn of God, he could handle a piss-ant demon.

Even if it did call itself the King of Hell.

Dean smiled. A lightness overtook him, bubbled up in his soul. He lifted his head and met Sam's eyes again. "I can do this," he said. "Have a little faith, Sammy. Just a little, okay? This isn't a cemetery in Lawrence, is it? And I'm walking into the pit hosting a lesser demon, not leaping into it with _Lucifer_ onboard."

He saw the shift in Sam's eyes. Saw the tic in his jaw, and the quieting of his face from anger into acceptance. "You jerk."

Dean merely grinned, twitched his brows, saying nothing.

Because Sammy knew the comeback.

* * *

Every instinct in his body screamed at Sam as he walked back into the dungeon behind his brother. But short of challenging him to a duel—pistols, knives, rifles, maybe even fists—Sam saw no way of winning this one. And even if he did challenge, and Dean accepted, and they fought themselves to an end result, Dean would win even if he lost.

A man with nothing to lose doesn't care. Doesn't invest. Doesn't lay everything on the line. A man with _everything_ to lose, including the world, his brother, would never allow _even_ that brother to deter him from putting himself at risk. Because risk wasn't a certainty of failure. It was a _gamble_ —and sometimes gambles paid off.

_'Can't you trust me to know what I'm doing? Can't you put some faith in me?'_

Cell phone.

For some bizarre, absurd reason, with a rogue synapse firing wildly, the image of a cell phone popped into Sam's head. And memories of articles, books he'd read, about the great inventors. Alexander Graham Bell created and patented the telephone. Thomas Alva Edison, a man of disciplined science, planned to use a modified phone to contact the _spirit world._

Hell, they were Winchesters. They'd been dealing with demons up close and personal since before Sam's birth; since before _Dean's_ birth. Mary Campbell took a gamble on saving John Winchester, playing the long con to win. She'd won—John was back—but lost, because she died the night Azazel, old Yellow-Eyes himself, fed her youngest on his own blood.

Years later, her widower, still grieving fiercely with angry Winchester fervor, had played the long con, too, to save his eldest. Because only his eldest could save his _youngest_. Dean had been doing it all of his life since the age of four.

Now, Dean was in effect making himself into a telephone, a _spirit phone_ , to transmit vital information. A Hand of God, employed _just so_ against Amara, would destroy her. Dean had gone back in time to bring home a fragment of the Ark of the Covenant to do precisely that— _Jesus, just give him the damn fedora and bullwhip, already!_ —and returned safely. He'd gone to hell acting as Crowley's errand boy to grab something the demon needed, and returned safely . . . was this any different? Risk, yes. Always. But success was the payoff. Had that first Hand of God been available for a second use, a third, _Lucifer_ would be gone.

He'd leaped into the pit with Lucifer onboard, and stopped the apocalypse. Because Dean allowed it.

_Who the hell am I to say no to my brother? He didn't say no to me._

Sam ranged up behind his brother as Dean paused on the outside of the iron circle, placed himself just off Dean's left. Crowley, seated quietly, looked up at them, assessed them, and a glint of triumph gleamed at the back of his eyes.

"Point to the elder," he said. He smiled, still assessing. "You _are_ formidible, I'll give you that. Alpha males in your prime: big, strong, powerful young men with courage in abundance, bred of discipline, and loyalty, and utter dedication, with physical tools few have at their beck. You are _infamous_ among my kind for good reason. Sam, the Boy King, Azazel's favorite; and Dean, Alastair's greatest pupil, briefly a Knight of Hell. It's no wonder books have been written about you. Maybe one of these days they'll give you . . . oh, I don't know—a TV series?" Again, the glint in his eyes. "Azazel was a fool. He discounted the oldest, focused solely on the youngest. He should have looked on you _as a pair_. As a _pure partnership_. The King of Hell and his Knight: Winchesters, Campbells. Bound on both sides by blood and bone." He made a gesture of resignation. "Ah well. Can't have everything, can we?"

"One and done," Dean said. "In and out. No side-trips. I go, I get it, I come back, you get the hell out of my head."

Crowley smirked. "I'm _borrowing_ you, Dean, not highjacking you. It's not car theft if you loan me the keys, now, is it? Besides— _you'll_ be in the driver's seat. I'll merely be . . . " He paused with theatrical timing, " . . . riding shotgun _._ "

Dean twitched at that, even as Sam did. Crowley couldn't know that, could he? Or had he rifled through Sam's memories while muttering _'Poughkeepsie?'_

_'Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.'_

Jesus. Chuck's _damn books._

Sam forced words through a taught jaw. "You mentioned traps. And if you run into any demons? If _Dean_ does?"

Crowley waved a hand. "Off-setting frequencies, Sam. They'll smell demon, and see what I make them see. Traps for me will sense Dean; traps for him will sense me. Or, well, sense _a_ demon, not me _per se_." He waved a hand. "It's like that dress that was all over the Internet. What colors did _you_ see? Blue and black? White and gold?"

Dean sounded both utterly baffled and supremely disgusted. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"Assurances," Sam insisted, who'd believed the dress blue and black but would never admit to Dean that he knew anything about it. " _In_ surance."

Crowley sighed. "Moose, you know the drill. I will enter your brother as I've entered others, as I entered _you_ . . . and the vessel stays behind. " A sweep of one hand indicated his body with a flourish. "You'll be in charge of it. That's your insurance. Because when I'm elsewhere, paying a strictly social call, what's left behind is empty. You could even burn the bones, and then where would I be?"

"These aren't _your_ bones," Sam shot back. "We tried that once, remember? Me burning this body kills the host, not you. And in the meantime, you'll be in my brother."

Dean, with his back to Sam, grunted disgust. "Jesus, I hate the way that sounds."

Crowley ignored Dean and stared at Sam. "You _ejected an angel_ , Sam. On your own. Yes, I had to wake you up to the fact that you were possessed, but I won't be actually _possessing_ your brother. And if _anyone_ can eject the King of Hell, it's Dean Winchester. So, assurance. _In_ surance." His gaze shifted to Dean. "Shall we, Squirrel? May I have this dance?"

Dean swung around, flipped the angel blade in his hand, held it out to his brother. His face was taut, but his eyes were steady. Certain. "Cut the tat, Sammy."

* * *

_**~ tbc ~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have half of Chapter 6 written and plan to return to it very soon. I hope these five chapters have given you a compelling taste of what's to come, and that you'll hang on for the ride. I have much angst, anguish, and pain planned for Dean as he returns to hell, while Sam waits topside growing more and more worried and restless.


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